


That Time The Jeep Died

by mathilde



Series: Beacon Hills: Small Occurences Worth Remembering [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, How I think the Jeep would die, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathilde/pseuds/mathilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s some part of him that notices that it’s four in the morning, and that there are no other cars on the road. Small mercies―he’ll take what he can get. No cars means no witnesses, and thank fuck for that, because the way Derek literally rips the car door to shreds would be pretty difficult to explain. “Where the fuck are you two <em>morons</em> going?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time The Jeep Died

**Author's Note:**

> AYO I DON'T EVEN KNOW, GUYS. ENJOY.

"I don't even know why I agreed to this," complains Scott. He purses his lips, then relents: "It  _did_ seem like a good idea, an hour ago." Stiles rolls his eyes, but he keeps driving away from Beacon Hills, doing ninety in a fifty-five zone and hoping, hoping his Jeep keeps going. She’s getting old, and he’s been tough on her the past few weeks.

Stiles thinks it’s better if they just go do their thing and not think about the witches who are probably after them, and how Derek will react when he finds out the two youngest of his pack have decided to do Something Stupid, capital S and that jazz. (Pack isn't really the right word, when he thinks about it. Entourage, maybe? Scott's still on his own, and well, Stiles is where Scott is, ultimately, but hey; common enemy, and all.) He thinks it's better not to think about all of that, but it's been half an hour since they've left, and the adrenaline is wearing off―and Stiles is starting to think that his idea probably wasn't so great, after all. 

He's just trying to help―he knows someone down in Sacramento who knows how to kill and/or severely maim witches that are trying to decimate an entire pack of werewolves. There are no other leads, so far, and Derek trying to talk to them peacefully has led to Erica being temporarily catatonic. Stiles decided to take matters into his own hands after one of the witches transformed Jackson into an actual Porsche. He’d probably find this funny if she didn’t drive him around town, for all who know to see. Fucking _witches_ , man. 

"And we couldn't just call your 'contact' because―"

"I called her. She said she needs to be here to kill them, and she doesn't have a car. Trust me, Scott, I'm not doing this because I  _want_ to."

Scott snorts. Yeah, okay, maybe Stiles is a little excited, because this little trip could potentially save everyone, but whatever. There's the fact that Derek is going to be royally pissed, mission successful or not. That does put a dent in Stiles' excitement, but only barely. Derek can rage all he wants; Stiles has everything under control. 

Except Scott’s phone buzzes, and Stiles’ heart―jesus _fuck_ ―stops beating for an actual second. “Who is it?” he asks, voice unnaturally shrill and nope, that’s not a smirk he sees on his friend’s face. Nope. “How did he―”

“It’s Isaac. He says Boyd found the witch that tried to turn you into a pumpkin.” 

“Oh,” and Stiles breathes out in relief, because hey, it’s not Derek, so they’re not in danger of being chased by a black Camaro―or, worst case scenario, a very wolfed-out, very angry Alpha―anytime soon on the highway. “Good, very good. They find anything useful?”

“She’s quiet. They’re keeping her at Derek’s house. Says they don’t know where he is, though,” Scott says, a little hesitantly. He shifts in his seats, and suddenly the silence in the Jeep is a little overwhelming. If Derek’s not with the rest of the Pack, where is he?

“Maybe he’s hunting the coven alone,” Stiles offers, and here’s that weird voice, again. Fuck, if they survive this, Scott will have the best blackmail material in the history of their friendship. “Or, hey, maybe he’s totally sulking because he doesn't know what to― _fuck._ "

And yeah, okay, he should’ve seen this coming, but Stiles was gonna positive-think his way through the journey and come back unharmed! And alive! A case of  _Be-The-Spark,_   _The Secret_  kind of thinking, no less, which should’ve made the trip disaster-proof. But no! Stiles’ Jeep, Stiles'  _baby_  has decided that enough is enough. 

The Jeep finally gives out; going out not with a bang, not with a whisper, but with a low, unsettling whine that sounds eerily human. Stiles fights off the nervous laughter that’s bubbling inside him. Scott drops his head on the dashboard and mumbles a string of curses that would make Stiles’ dad blush. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“The not-telling-Derek part, or the going-all-the-way-to-Sacramento-on-our-own part of the idea?” Because seriously, Stiles doesn’t know which is worse. 

“All of it, Stiles. All of the parts.”

Where does the sass come from? Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You spend way too much time with Peter.”

“Stiles, you’d better find a solution, or we’re dead. Derek’s―”

“Yeah, yeah. Derek’s gonna kill us, I know. Let me just―” he pulls out his phone and turns the GPS on, waits for it to load. “We’re near the I-80. Maybe ten minutes from Sacramento.” He gives his best it’s-not-that-bad smile to Scott, who’s now typing away furiously at his phone, probably writing off his will to Allison, because this was a Bad Idea, and there’s going to be consequences. “Would you stop? Derek’s―”

There’s some part of him that notices that it’s four in the morning, and that there are no other cars on the road. Small mercies―he’ll take what he can get. No cars means no witnesses, and thank fuck for that, because the way Derek literally rips the car door to shreds ( _my baby!_ ), would be pretty difficult to explain. Stiles barely has time to unbuckle his seat belt (he’s not dumb, he knows what’s coming and he’d like get yanked out of his Jeep without the extra pain a buckled seatbelt might cause, thank you) before Derek has him against up against the side of the car, glaring at him, murderous. “Where the fuck are you two  _morons_ going?"

Oh, fuck him. Stiles totally had everything under control, _up until now_ , and Derek's veins look like they're  _this_ close to popping out, which―really? Stiles glares right back. He glances at Scott, who’s getting out slowly, and who is trying very hard not to look like he’s about to shit his pants. No support there. "I know someone in Sacramento who's willing to help us. She knows how to get rid of the coven." 

Derek is not impressed. Derek's  _eyebrows_ are not impressed.

“We were just trying to help!” Scott protests, and Stiles feels strangely comforted that Scott doesn't say that Stiles basically forced him to come along. 

Maybe he doesn't need to. As is is, the whole idea probably has _Stiles_ written in big, bold, black letters on it. 

Derek scoffs, and his grip on Stiles’ shirt relents ever so slightly, and, my _god_ , Stiles actually vibrates with relief. Jesus. “No need for that. I took care of it.”

Stiles splutters. “Wait, what? You took care of it? As in, you killed them?  _How_?”

Derek shrugs. “Deaton helped,” he reluctantly grits out, like it physically pains him to admit he needed the help of the vet. It’s Stiles’ turn to huff out a laugh. Derek lets him go completely and walks back to his Camaro. Stiles and Scott look at each other, bewildered. What, that’s it? They’re off the hook, just like that? Scott starts towards Derek’s car, and Stiles almost joins him, except Derek―Derek gets in, and promptly drives off, without a word. 

Stiles’ text ringtone fills the awkward silence that follows Derek’s departure, and he glances down at his phone.

There’s the phone number of a towing company, and  _If your asses aren’t back in Beacon Hills before dawn, I’m sending Peter._

Fuck everything. 

Stiles turns to his best friend, his loyal, adorable best friend. “We’ve got two hours to get back home,” he starts, and the thought of Peter coming to get them makes him shiver. “Otherwise we’re―really dead, this time.”

Scott nods and sits back in the driver's seat. Stiles follows, dialing as he walks, and figures now's as good a time as any to start properly mourning his Jeep. 

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted over at mathildus.tumblr.com!


End file.
